


The Fourth, Plus Sixth

by PhoenixUnknown



Series: Francel of The Pure White and the Twelve Ward Knights [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood, Blood and Injury, Character developement but with a hint of porn, Francel in the middle, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sex While Standing, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:22:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27318439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixUnknown/pseuds/PhoenixUnknown
Summary: Even being a part of the Heavensward, used for war in a wave of lies-they still feel. There just happens to be two heads and hearts to feel with...
Relationships: Grinnaux de Dzemael/Francel de Haillenarte, Grinnaux de Dzemael/Paulecrain de Fanouilley/Francel de Haillenarte, Paulecrain de Fanouilley/Francel de Haillenarte
Series: Francel of The Pure White and the Twelve Ward Knights [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1148267
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	The Fourth, Plus Sixth

**Author's Note:**

> [[ To be noted that I don't write all the events of HW as coming to pass. That is all.]]

It had been a whisper heard passing through the doors of Saint Raymanauds Cathedral, a quiet gossip between the lord and lady couple passing Francel by upon their entering the holy grounds. 

The whisper being, “The Dzemael brute of a son has been at the Proving Grounds since dawn brawling like a beast…”

It trails off as they pass, but it was enough to make Francel pause. Their wounds were not particularly fresh anymore, not that he was worried - mind you, but he did not believe any of the Heavensward were fit to be fighting after the battle with the Warrior of Light and Archbishop Thordan’s downfall. Francel took a leisurely walk there, thinking it would be over soon as he arrived, if not before. He was not typically interested in these things, so it did not surprise him news of any scheduled event or spectacle did not reach him.

The Proving Grounds guide was understandably surprised to see him. Alinaure bowed deeply upon recovery, and he acknowledged her for about as long as it took for him to notice the ring was indeed still occupied. His nod to her was barely respectful of Ishgardian custom before he was drawn to the Bull in the ring. He waved off her guidance and sidled around the edge of the rink to an unoccupied set of steps and reclined on a bench Alinaure saw fit to fetch him.

The Knight in the ring still wore the white armor with its telling blue trim, but by now it was smeared with blood and sand. Ser Grinnaux fought against Temple Knights off duty testing their mettle, perhaps wanting a chance to beat a disgraced Heavensward Knight; a hollow victory for their injuries suffered of their grave mistakes. This Temple Knight he faced was not the first Ser Grinnaux had fought, likely it would not be the last, and each one strived to leave their mark. A broken nose which streamed crimson rivulets, dripped into the sand and spattered against the white of his armor. A black eye turning darker as he fought on angrily, piteously.

Francel crosses one leg over the other, folds his gloved hands in his lap and watches as dispassionately as he was capable. Despite the armor, despite the chainmail, he could still make out the exhausted tremble of muscle as Ser Grinnaux expends one cleave after the other when he honestly should not even be holding an axe. And, when one Temple Knight goes down, there is another to replace them, each hoping theirs will be the final blow. The fighting is dirty, between singing weapons, butting heads and low blow kicks meant to stun out of sheer force.

Nearest companion to Ser Grinnaux, Ser Paulecrain had noticed Francel’s entrance--after their return to Ishgard, had resolved that they would likely never see the young Lord again. He was indeed surprised to spot him and wondered about his presence here today, and the carefully neutral and unnatural facade. What was Lord Francel thinking as he watched Grinnaux struggle in the Proving Grounds?

As before when presented with the soft-spoken Lord, he could resist no more and approached him so that at Francel’s resting side he drew himself up rigidly to his full height and stood near to him. Francel did not betray even a glance, he saw the armor from his peripheral and knew it could be no other.

“His ferocity is amazing, is it not?” Ser Paulecraine drawled low, and Francel merely tilted an ear his way.

“I supposed in the same way a criminal repents by way of self mutilation when lacking the ability to express their guilt, or admit their folly.”

Ser Paulecraine stares hard at the profile of Francel’s side now, good eye narrowed in on him.

“Do not try to convince yourself otherwise that this is anything except a vainglory display of self reassuring punishment.”

They can hear the beastial bellows of the Bull as he over exerts himself, exceeds limits he had passed many fights prior.

“You are all lost,’ Francel murmurs, ‘the Heavensward left intact by the good Lord Commander, and untouched such that you wallow in your new found uselessness until the guilt of your crimes bury you, unable to run from them by serving as true Knights, driven mad as you wait for a punishment to be met out -- one that will never come, so you each punish yourselves in your own way. Ser Grinnaux in his inherent violence, and you as you watch your master try to smear himself across the floor, all until Lord Commander Aymeric repurposses you, or until you have met a punishment sufficient for your own sins.”

Ser Paulecrain is stunned to silence, the boiling rage in his blood cools under the weight of bitterness and desolation in Francel’s voice. 

“Stop this madness, fetch your master, for neither may come and he needs a chirugeon.”

“Only if you come to the infirmary as well.” Paulecraine rushes out, the force in his low tone was undermined when he trails off under the sudden stare turned on him. Francel’s midnight eyes shimmer wetly in the dim light, and the sleepless nights weigh at the soft lines of his face. 

_ “Ah,’ _ Ser Paulecraine thinks, having to turn his back on that expression,  _ ‘this is why Ser Zephirin has locked himself away.” _ Paulecraine volts the ring barrier and stalks to the middle of the it to break up the fighting, Ser Grinnaux had turned to head butting when their brawl had devolved into a wrestle.  _ “I have not known consequence such as this, this creature we had the audacity to grow attached to and had assumed we had become his world.’ _ The fight was hard to break up, Grinnaux seemed delirious but clearly could no longer hold up his axe, it lay in the sand, and Paulecrain was able to keep him at bay with just one arm looped around his shoulders. His other hand shoving at the Temple Knight’s chest to keep him back until they both snap out of their bloodust. _ "Only to learn that we had simply become a part of his, and by forcefully inserting ourselves into his life had hoped to replace the nigh irreplaceable.”  _ The Temple Knight was hardly in better condition and seemed to know that picking a fight with a fresher Heavensward Knight was unwise, and wavered on his feet in exhaustion as the high of battle finally crashed. By the time he was able to pull Ser Grinnaux to another extension of the Grounds with the aid of a chirugeon; Grinnaux was dragging but still trying to fight them off, the two of them had to push him down on a cot with all their strength for him to realize he truly could go on no longer and the effort to lift himself became too great this time…  _ “An outlet convenient only for ourselves so we do not descend into  _ **_this_ ** _ … this madness…” _

Francel was met with two quivering nurses at the infirmary entranceway, the ones which held the Heavensward Knights, and the two of them were frantic in their whispers before noticing his approach, they welled up with simultaneous relief and concern. 

“The big one, he keeps asking for you, Lord Francel. He won't stay  _ still,  _ and his companion is vicious and cold.” 

Francel could feel the onset of a headache forming, “Yes, I know though I do not know  _ why _ , I am merely adequate at first-aid, not a chirugeon--but they are  _ idiots _ .” He could feel their palpable relief at his humoring them dryly, “I will attend them, and you need not worry about me doing so. I have worked with they and their brethren before which may be why they seek familiarity.” 

He turns to the door and lets himself in, Ser Paulecrain had turned to cruelly eject whoever had entered before seeing it was Lord Francel and wheeling back. From this short distance he could tell Francel hardly wanted to be here, casting a halfhearted glance at the shelving and their contents before eyeing first Paulecrain up, and then Grinnaux on the cot. At some point, having sat up and removed his chestmail and gauntlets and currently was soaking a rag through with blood from his nose, Francel remained unimpressed. Paulecrain seems to circle around as Francel strides forward, ignoring him as he goes to look out the door and growls at the two that remained behind while Francel stares down at Grinnaux; his smirk less shit-eating than usual, all bravado.

"Please." Francel rolls his eyes, the click of his gaiters on stone indicative of his toe-tapping impatience. "What did you even hope to accomplish by attempting to smear your brains across the sand, and dragging half a dozen Temple Knights with you?"

"To feel."

Francel's breath catches then. The smirk doesn't fade. There is still blood on his lips and teeth. 

"The familiarity of the  _ one _ damn thing I've ever been good for. The rush of blood and high of battle. Something  _ other _ than the  _ rage _ , the--the… the knowledge." 

All of him seemed so out of place, then. The smirk. The blood. The weariness and desolation of untold lies in those eyes. Because deep down, Ser Grinnaux, in all his arrogance, had been so falsely trusting. Placing that unquestioning trust, and his unreasonable strength in higher, knowledgeable powers, and just as guilty for the destruction wrought because of it. 

"And so, having never been made to bear the weight of your own sins, sought to numb them the only way you know how."

Francel takes a deep breath, and knows Paulecrain to be hovering at his back, now. Shakes his head instead, and curbs the a che of his heart.

"Let me see your damnable face."

He doesn't ask as he moves into Grinnaux's personal space, and as he pulls the cloth away. Standing between his knees and leaning in to look at the blood congealing above his lip. Hands reach immediately for his legs, sliding from the back of his thighs, to his knees. Francel let's him have that intimate familiarity, and comfort.

"I ought to mess it up more." Francel bites out, but his voice has lost its edge. And, besides, having already been broken, there was hardly anything else left to do. "I am not a medic, you know." He seeks to fill the quiet, two sets of eyes unwavering on him near to unbearable. "I could make it worse on behalf of your elementary insistence."

Ser Grinnaux has started smiling again, and, Francel thinks he just may enjoy being bitten at in this way. It makes him fume a little more before he sets the nose back without warning (and some help with aether), gets a testy howl and snarl for his efforts, and… a rush of more blood onto his hands. The gloves were beyond saving, but that hardly seemed to matter. Paulecrain was more to his side now, scowling and bouncing from one foot to the next.

"Go get some water so we can clean him up."

And he does, which just may be the strangest thing Francel could imagine. There are hands still at the back of his knees, fingers pressed into the seams on the sides, his hands were so large as to encompass the width. Francel does not move out of reach, nor shift beneath the hold-and doubted he had the strength anyways to do so. Paulecrain brings back the water, and other supplies Francel had neglected to request, but, Paulecrain was not stupid-and this he knew. 

Grinnaux is rinsing his mouth while Francel dabs his neck and chest with hot water, unmoving of his hold and making it all the more difficult. And after he's spit, the warrior lets Francel tilt back his head to finish his job. Yet all the while, those large hands and long fingers retrace familiarity, creep up the back of his thighs and wrap around their middle. They sink into soft and tender flesh through the cloth of his gaskins and undergarments. Make circles and circuits that draw Francel's breath testingly tight from his pounding chest. Yet… and yet… he speaks not, knits only his brow and let's a weak tremble of his lips be the only tell.

Even still he gently cleans around Grinnaux's tender nose; the congealed blood and sand gives way to the image of the regal arch left intact. Mops up every smear, from temple to cheek, and even the split lip. Until he is clean, and maybe rubbed a little red, and raw. Paulecrain may as well have been reverent when he takes one of Grinnaux's arms and cleans the blood and grime from them. He resisted very little, but snapped back his grip to Francel's thighs as soon as his closest companion was finished. 

“What are you, twelve?”

Francel did not expect an answer back, did not receive one--has begun to turn away as he pulls his bloodied gloves free but for the pull of Ser Grinnaux’s strength resistant at his thighs, and his inevitable stumble forward. The gloves drop and Ser Paulecrain having abandoned his rag to the floor so that he may draw himself against Francel’s back, arms around his waist, a hand sliding from stomach to chest to press him close while Grinnaux buries his face against Francel’s stomach.

“Children, the both of you.” Francel tries so hard to seethe, but his protest falls short and finds the arms around his legs, and waist to be too firm against his half-hearted attempts at turning away. He is left breathless for their desperate nearness, always they take, and take, and  _ take _ from him. Why is he so weak? Why are they so strong? No, that is not to blame... If he truly protested, they would release him-he knows this.

“I always used to think that if I just got stronger-it would make everything better. So, I fought, and I fought--as if strength would make me invincible; to everything said, and what everyone wanted.” Ser Grinnaux’s deep voice was muffled in the green of his bliaud, the side of his face nestled against his belly, mouth and chin turned inwards so that his nose was not completely pressed into him. 

“There will always be someone, or something out there stronger than you. In the same way that Lord Haurchefant is much stronger than I, yet you all were stronger than he. In the way Archbishop Thordan enthralled you all, but was no match for the savior of Ishgard. What matters is how you use that growing strength. For, there is strength also in compassion, for we who cannot hope to accomplish what you are able to and maybe…"

There seemed to be a growing frustration in the way Francel spoke, a muted urgency in his lowered tones. 

"Just maybe that is what Lord Commander Aymeric is waiting for you to all realize. The measure of your strength is not just marked in the growth of your martial prowess, neither does your worth lie just in that. Our city is full of those who cannot protect themselves, who are weak-and you have grown to believe the world is meant only for the strong to live in. Now we are faced with paving a road for the future that was so uncertain before, and he has given you a chance to find your place in it. As desolate, and as lost as you were, sending you to battle would have been a death sentence until you found it.”

“To protect… and to serve.” 

"Yes, to protect' Francel whispers back, lost between who had spoken when pitted against two sets of unabashedly explorative hands, his voice made tremulous and weak between them. Paulecrain takes the hat nearly by the feather in a fistful as he drags it from Francel's head, leans in and begins to kiss a soft trail up the length of his neck, fingers to his jaw turn that soft face towards him and allows him to press kiss after kiss against peach lips parted in a move to mute a breathless exclamation,  _ "and to serve…" _ Francel manages barely an utterance as he is twisted as they please, to reach what parts of him they desired. Paulecrain, his mouth, Grinnaux, newly exposed flesh of his hips where Paulecrain has helped push down his gaskins, and Grinnaux has slipped his hands beneath the hem at the rear. Maddening, shiver inducing touches lighter than he would have expected from they; and the upwards stroke of Paulecrain's hand as it slides from where his arm had curled around to his belly, cool palm warming on his heating flesh as he passes over his sternum and chest and presses to his collar. Presses him back into a sturdy chest while Grinnaux's fingers ease between the tight cleft of his buttocks, his gaskins coiled at his thighs and finds his knees nearly buckling as Grinnaux  _ teases him there. _ But a stroke of fingers past his part. A careful nudge. A press. But it was dry, and so he went no further against the silken bud. 

"Like as not to be oil, or th'like somewhere..."

Paulecrain murmurs against Francel's collarbone, where his wandering lips led and where teeth could properly indulge. Blessed for the quavering sigh he got when leaving a hot blooded welt, kiss shaped and in contrast to the pale, freckle marked juncture 'twixt red blushed shoulder and slender neck. 

"Then go get it."

He hears Grinnaux say, gruff as ever. And he could have kicked him then, right in the gut where it would hurt with his injuries, and then what would he do? Lay there and watch as he took Francel all to himself to ravish? Paulecrain can only give a frustrated snarl, because he realizes belatedly Grinnaux has no intention of actually taking Francel, the oil was for his own benefit-he sees it when their gazes cross; Grinnaux looking up from where Francel's belly is becoming kiss stained, and himself looking down from his marked shoulders. Grinnaux licks his lips, and Paulecrain just  _ knows _ . He shoves away, and Grinnaux holds the subtle swell of hips firmer, teeth pulling skin and earning a sweetened little whimper, a breathless chastise, all met his back as he tore cabinets apart for plain oil, anything at all… 

Glycerin for the hands? Good enough.

It was thick and gelatinous and with too liberal use became a slippery mess on his fingers. Hopes only vaguely he isn't too rough when pushing Francel forward, makes him put a hand on Grinnaux's shoulder as a brace, who doesn't wince, so he keeps Francel held there with a hand. Grinnaux works down his gaskins, leaning in to kiss his hips while Francel's ankles become a pool of fabric and his rear is lain bare. He shivers at the hands, large and calloused running up the length of his thighs and over his buttocks, gripping each in a handful and spreading him. Paulecrain drizzles the cream between his part, and Francel begins to shudder in repressed desire for he knows what comes next; Grinnaux's probing fingers. His own clench into the darkers shoulder as one fingers makes its way in, he takes in breath after deep breath, remaining as quiet as he can when Grinnaux rocks in to the knuckle within, presses deep, back and forth, in and out. Adds a second and  _ spreads _ so that he is gasping now for air despite trying so hard to  _ breath even _ and remain relaxed and open.

His bliaud is nestled around Grinnaux's head where he is leaning into his hips, open mouthed kisses at his hip line and groin. Eventually getting a deep, " _ hold this up, boy."  _ And he listens, Francel fisting the end and pulling it up to his chest while Grinnaux kisses around everywhere but the aching arch of his prick. The length diminutive compared to the one Paulecrain saw fit to rub suggestively at his tailbone. Compared to the painful bulge in the front of Grinnaux's trousers… 

Begins to feel the give in his own aching hole, the way he eases up on the fingers clenched upon, within. Finds that the resistance and drag drops off as Grinnaux’s insistent little thrusts increase in pace. Until Francel is rocking on the tips of his toes, and his hand grips the back of Grinnaux’s neck with crescent nail marks at the nape. Paulecrain grows impatient, it can be heard in the way he growls, and the press of his cock against his lower back. Hands tightened on his waist, slide down to his hips to grip him tightly, pulling him back so that his thighs meet Paulecrain’s, and Grinnaux’s fingers are dragged out of him. Whisper quiet whimper elicited at their going, but drawing out a moan at the insistence of Paulecrain’s cock pressed lengthily against his spread cheeks. While watching Grinnaux finger Francel open, he had been stroking lotion from tip to base, a glaze which let him slide against Francel’s already silky skin. Paulecrain was eager, and pressed upon Francel’s newly preparedness. The bud, soft and sweet, opened to him, enveloped-could only groan at the tightness he began to slide within. A pleasure long in the making, not since one fateful day saw Francel to them in the whole. And he was ecstatic for it, in ecstasy for him. Holding him, bearing upon the soft swell of his hips to sink deeper,  _ deeper _ .

“Yes…” Is Paulecrain’s drawn out growl. Oh how he had missed this. 

The tight heat which enveloped him, slowly embedded to the root until at last his hips could nestle against a plump rear. His thumbs pressed into either dimple atop Francel’s buttocks, and he knew joy again, then. The kind that made him quiver as he reared back his strength, kept it locked down as he leans over close. Drags his teeth across roving shoulder blades-wonders what has Francel’s shaking so if not just his cock seated fully. Ah, but over that shoulder he sees, or rather-barely able to, the way Grinnaux’s head moves, a gentle bob at the head over Francel’s twitching prick. The swirl of a devilish red tongue, and slide of lips over the rosy hued head. And then, Grinnaux pulls back to wink at him, and he knows Francel is ready for him, Grinnaux sets out his tongue along the base of it, holds open his mouth, and Paulecrain bucks into him then. The thrust into Francel has him crying out, the duality of being pleasured as his hips snap forward and fucks into Grinnaux’s mouth a momentous sensation. The pressure put upon him with every draw of Grinnaux’s clever use of mouth makes him keen, faintly and tremulously out for him. Francel can feel the tickle of a nose against his belly, and hardly can pass a thought for the ache of it’s press for the pleasure every swipe of that tongue renders the thought negligible. 

His prick is such a comfortable fit too, never reaching the back of Grinnaux’s throat. Never more than a sweetened weight upon his tongue as Paulecrain buries himself over, and over again in a heat he’s only dreamed of since returning. Faintly wonders why Grinnaux would limit himself so-knows that when he is done, Francel’s ass would be malleable, and ready for the girth of him. But even through his haze, can see the dishevelment of Grinnaux’s hair, the sweat at this temple lingers, the flushed, rubbed red rawness in his cheeks-and knows then too, Grinnaux finds himself dealing with more than just his inner filthiness. 

For now, it is good enough. Good enough to have the drag of his cock in and out of that near terribly tight hole. Grinnaux chasing those hips on every draw back. Paulecrain snapping back into him until their flesh meets audibly. Francel, having no where else to go, but back into Grinnaux’s eagerly waiting mouth, can only quiver, call out, and hold on to those still strong shoulders as it happens. The roll of his hips against lips, against Paulecrain’s front. Ah, but it is too much for him. Open palmed, he touches Grinnaux’s cheek, a warning breathless, “A-ah, aah…I--” And then, drapes his arms around him fully, leaning into Grinnaux and coming with such heat, such feeling in his wavering voice, drawn out, and higher pitched than normal; his climax, and, right over Grinnaux’s tongue and lips. Right to his throat in rivulets of warm seed. The man pulls back to lick his lips, and pull himself out of his trousers to touch and stroke. Paulecrain having gripped those hips so that with a slap of flesh against the roundness of Francel’s rear, can take his piece fully, bites into his flesh more cruelly until Francel sobs with the pain of it, and the mixture of pleasure of it. Over sensitive and tightened from release, until Paulecrain makes his mess of him, seed; sticky and viscous now a new found trail after a sharp groan makes his only warning. A dripping mess from the cock pulled out, the remnants of orgasm marks the space between dimples, and drips from betwixt soft thighs. 

And, that his thighs too cannot be spared the same fate. Gratuitous and warm, a smattering of semen, the guttural groan eased from Grinnaux as it happens. Such that Francel can only shudder as it happens, it slides down the front of his thighs lazily...

“Really, you two…? Now how am I supposed to leave here…” is said after he’s caught his breath. Exasperation. But, dare they continue to hope, a lingering fondness come to surface again. Breathless, none the less.

Francel would make them attend him now in return as repentance.

**Author's Note:**

> [[ Thank you so much for reading this far. My next few projects will likely be personal ones. I'm a little written-out. If allowed to post them, I will. Thank you again, and hope you enjoyed. ]]


End file.
